


Focus

by ginwrites



Series: Common Company [2]
Category: Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Closeted Character, Developing Relationship, Emotionally Repressed, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, One Shot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Rare Fandoms, Rare Pairings, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, characters besides Henry and Hans are mainly just mentioned briefly, idk i'm terrible at tagging, kinda PWP but it does expand on their dynamic quite a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 11:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20506103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginwrites/pseuds/ginwrites
Summary: The tide of war pushes inexorably forward and the powers that be are gathering to discuss strategy and minimise casualties. Henry of Skalitz finds himself in the midst of things, which would be a great honour if he wasn't so distracted by a certain snobbish lord, who has taken to brushing him off since their last encounter.





	Focus

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote [my first Henry/Hans piece](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129622), I never expected it to get the attention that it did; I was so happy to find out that I wasn't the only one who felt there could be something more between them. I'm grateful to everyone who read it and, in one, case, [even translated it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17001996)! More than a year later, here's the follow up I couldn't stop thinking about. You don't need to have read the first one to get the gist, but it probably helps (and let's face it, there's not that much to read in this fandom anyway, lmao). Enjoy!

Focus had always been difficult for Henry. Long afternoons in Skalitz came to mind, in which he’d tried as he might to pay attention to his father’s lessons on blacksmithing—how long to heat the metal, how to tell it was ready to be worked and when it was time to plunge beaten blade into cooling water. He would be shaken out of involuntary daydreams by hissing water vapour, only to find his father shaking his head at his absentmindedness exasperatedly and, perhaps, a little fondly. When he had finally tracked down the Uzhitz scribe in his endeavour to learn his letters, it had been difficult for Henry to focus on the task at hand. Try as he might, the shapes wouldn’t stop dancing across the page, and he found it almost impossible to keep his mind from wandering. Worst of all, when a travelling monk from Sasau monastery had given several long sermons on his way through the village, Henry had actually fallen asleep with his chin on his palm and his mouth gaping half-open, in front of _everyone_. Bianca and his friends had loved reminding him of the incident for years after. 

Among all of these experiences, however, none had been anywhere near as challenging as the trial of seeing Lord Hans Capon again. Months upon months had passed since their last, rather unsavoury, encounter—enough time for the days to grow short and the forest to shed fresh green leaves for a darker, more colourful coat—but it was still more than vivid in Henry’s memory. It didn’t help that he had replayed every minute detail of the experience in his mind too often to count. Everything from the softness of Hans’ hair between his fingers, to the splashing noises of their illicit activities, even down to the flowery scent of steaming bathwater could be recalled as readily as though it had occurred mere _days_ ago.

It wasn’t surprising, then, that he found it difficult to focus on Sir Radzig’s careful planning or Sir Divish’s well-considered cautions. It was an honour for Henry to be allowed to be privy to the war council’s meetings, he _knew_ that, and yet whenever his eyes strayed to the right of Sir Hanush, where Lord Capon sat, his face a mask of earnest concentration, it was suddenly impossible to think of anything else at all.

All of this was made worse by the fact that every day without fail, the lord retreated to that plush private tent of his almost immediately after the council called it a night. He hadn’t deigned to exchange more than a perfunctory greeting with Henry, nor did he seem to be engaging in his usual drunken revelry—or, if he was, he was doing so in private. It was enough to get Henry’s blood boiling, being ignored like this after all that had happened between them. Was it really so _incidental_ to Hans Capon, to have invited another man into his bath and sucked his cock? Was it really of so little consequence that they were no more than _acquaintances_ still? Henry craved answers to these questions, craved them almost as desperately if not more so than he craved his touch, but he didn’t want the aristocrat to know just how much he had gotten under his skin.

Several days passed in this fashion, until Henry couldn’t take it anymore. When Sir Hanush got to his feet and declared he needed to clear his head after a long day of strategising, he took the opportunity to leave the meeting tent in his wake, then made his way to the lord’s tent, where he resolved to wait for him. Henry knew he was being foolish, reckless even, by pursuing this. The name he had managed to make for himself against all odds was fragile to say the least; one misstep and he might easily fall out of Sir Radzig’s favour and end up on the streets, meet the same fate of so many other refugees from Skalitz, but he just couldn’t seem to bring himself to drop it.

“Henry. What a surprise.”

The unmistakable highborn drawl of Lord Hans Capon immediately caused his stomach to drop. This had been a terrible idea, Henry realised, but backing out now wasn’t an option. Not least because the lord’s disinterested intonation already managed to get on his nerves.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment,” he managed, “In private.”

“Of course.”

There didn’t seem to be any hesitation on Lord Capon’s side as he nodded curtly to the guard stationed outside his tent. The armoured man parted the fabric folds of the tent’s entrance, allowing both men to enter—Henry following in the lord’s footsteps as was only right and proper. Once inside, Hans removed the heavy cape draped about his shoulders and discarded it carelessly across the table at the centre of the tent. Leaning against the item of furniture, which was decked with a fruit bowl and several candles, he cocked his head to one side to look at the commoner.

“I always have time for you, Henry.”

Clever retort suddenly stuck in his throat, Henry studied the other man’s expression closely, trying to discern what exactly he meant by that. He may have been a little distracted as of late, but he liked to think he had improved in leaps and bounds when it came to reading the layers of hidden meaning nobles liked to conceal behind their oh-so-casual words. To his immense dissatisfaction, the noble face in front of him—with its high cheekbones and impossibly long lashes—was as neutral as could be. It didn’t betray even a fraction of what thoughts might or might not have lain beyond.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Henry finally spoke, but it sounded less like a retort and more like a quiet accusation.

Lord Capon’s eyebrows rose immediately, surprise and detached amusement now mingling upon his features.

“What_ever_ do you mean?”

“Only that we’ve barely spoken since you arrived at the camp. You spend your evenings in here, and we’ve hardly exchanged a word—”

Henry took a few steps towards the lord without giving much thought to what he was going to do. Even as he stopped a few paces away, it didn’t escape his notice how Lord Capon’s grip on the table tightened suddenly. Despite this, his tone was evidently derisory when he spoke.

“I wasn’t aware that seeking audience with a _blacksmith’s boy_ was on my list of duties.”

“That’s not what I meant!” 

His anger was now plainly audible as he took another step towards the aristocrat. As he did so, the man’s grip on the table tightened further, delicate knuckles whitening.

“Please refrain from raising your voice. The guard will hear.”

Henry couldn’t make head nor tail of the lord’s reaction, both physical and verbal. He could tell, now, that Hans was decidedly unsettled, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. At last, the Groschen dropped, and Henry had to take a step back with the impact of it.

“You’re _scared_ of me?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re scared of me,” Henry repeated, incredulously, “You’re scared I’m going to get you in trouble.”

“Don’t be _ridiculous_,” Hans spat back, careful to keep his voice low despite his undisguised fury, “I could have you hung, drawn, and quartered at the snap of my fingers.”

“What is it then?”

Henry’s words were a challenge, and he underlined them by taking those last few paces until he was standing right in front of the lord, looking down at him all too cockily. Hans actually flinched at this, though he didn’t make any attempt at moving away.

“You forget yourself,” he said coldly, “You have no business speaking to me like this.”

“You think I’m such a brute, don’t you?”

Finally cutting to the core of what was bothering him, Henry leaned down, getting in the lord’s face. It didn’t matter what he said or did at this point; the line in the proverbial dirt had been crossed long ago, he might as well force Hans to look at him.

“Y-you will address me as ‘my Lord’ or not at all,” his voice shook ever so slightly, even as his tone remained commanding, haughty.

He was working so hard to keep up this pretence, Henry felt furious. His own voice shook with rage when he spoke, aware that this was probably the first time such words had been hurled at Lord Hans Capon in such close proximity, heated breath in his face.

“You think I’m such a brute, _my Lord_, a brutish blacksmith’s boy you can toy with, then discard at your leisure?”

“That is not what I—”

Henry felt his rage boil over, suddenly unable to hold himself back any longer. He didn’t want to listen to the lord’s excuses, clever words designed to confound him, to weasel his way out and shirk responsibility. In fact, he didn’t want to listen to anything Hans Capon might have to say.

“I’ll show you what kind of brute I am.”

His words turned into a growl as he spoke, but Henry didn’t care. Everything was a blur of anger and white hot need that was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. His lips collided with the other man’s with such force, it couldn’t be anything other than clumsy and aggressive. They hadn’t kissed all those months ago, and yet Henry had found himself thinking about it—picturing it, even. He had wondered what it might feel like to kiss Hans for so long, it was strange to feel those much-pondered lips yielding to his own forceful advances.

Henry’s hands found the noble’s sides but didn’t settle there, instead tugging at his clothes with immeasurable impatience while Hans pressed his body against Henry’s with such eagerness, it was easy to forget the indifference he had feigned mere moments prior. Expensive fabrics were discarded in a feverish hurry. When he finally caught sight of Hans’ face, he saw it was flushed and bashful, his pupils huge and dark and round, like bottomless wells. It was just as in his memory, the image of Hans on his knees, studying him, licking his lips.

“My God—”

“Be quiet,” Hans commanded huskily, and then: “_Come here._”

Henry did as he was told. The lord’s beckoning finger hooked itself into Henry’s britches and, once Henry himself had loosened their fastenings, pulled them down to his knees. Even though he knew it was coming this time, even though it should have felt familiar, the sensation of Hans’ fingers curling around his cock still sent a shock through him. He tried to focus his attention on removing more of the lord’s clothes, but it proved no easy task, not least because even the slightest brush of his fingers against the tip of Henry’s member made his hips jerk involuntarily forward.

Unable to take more of his expert teasing, Henry grabbed hold of Hans’ thighs and lifted him unceremoniously onto the table. Hans gasped audibly, a hand flying to cover up his mouth. Henry took the opportunity to pull down the other’s britches, fastened as they were with a heavy belt which was likely worth more than the entirety of Henry’s humble Rattay abode.

While their last encounter had been purely one-sided, Henry was determined to return as much as he received this time. Having imagined how another encounter between them might play out so many times in his mind, he didn’t want to be the dumbfounded, speechless fool a second time around. He took Hans’ cock in one large, calloused hand, surprised and maybe a little delighted at how hard it already was, _how hard Lord Hans Capon was for him._ The lord in question actually whimpered as Henry ran his hand up and down his shaft much as he would when pleasuring himself.

Instead of keeping his mouth covered with his hand, Hans pulled him in for another kiss, muffling his whimpers against Henry’s mouth. Their kiss was entirely different now that it was devoid of unsuppressed rage. He was struck by the overwhelming softness of the other’s lips—_surely_ a man’s lips had no business being this soft?—, by the boldness of his tongue as it ventured from between them to explore Henry’s mouth.

Even though he had clearly managed to surprise him, Hans was altogether too comfortable with what was currently occurring. Despite his irrational hopes and desires, a large part of Henry had been expecting to be pushed away, to be banished, possibly executed, or worse still, _laughed at_. Quite the contrary: Hans had one arm thrown about his shoulders as though this was the most natural thing in the world, while his other hand was back to teasing Henry’s cock. The ministrations finally drew a moan from Henry’s lips, causing Hans to grin against them smugly. He shifted backwards on the table’s surface and spread his legs, looking at Henry expectantly. Henry, who didn’t think he’d ever seen a more wonderful sight in his life, hesitated only momentarily before moving in close. Feeling skin up against bare skin as their torsos met was enough to make his cock jump beneath the lord’s touch.

“Give me your hand,” Hans spoke suddenly.

As though in a daze, Henry once again did as he was told, proffering his hand, facing upwards as though begging, at a loss as to what was expected of him. Hans grabbed it by the wrist and—in what couldn’t _possibly_ be construed as a lordly gesture—spat into his open palm without warning. Henry made to pull it back in surprise, but Hans held fast, guiding the commoner's hand lower between his legs.

As understanding dawned, Henry felt his cheeks flush a deep, mortified red. Hans was still smiling with his head to one side, his expression speaking of amusement at the other’s lack of experience. It was all Henry needed to egg him on. His fingers found the entrance with ease, and he began ever-so-tentatively to massage the lord’s saliva into the sensitive skin there. It was unthinkable, really, what he was doing, a most condemnable sin in the eyes of God, _most certainly_, but when Lord Capon’s hips bucked forward eagerly to meet his own, Henry knew he didn’t care. With only a single finger at first, he began to probe that tight little hole of his. Thoughts of sin and hellfire soon paled and slipped from his mind at the sounds Hans was making—moans and whimpers that were like music to his ears.

Henry added a second finger, curious what reaction this might illicit, and wasn’t disappointed. The other man’s head dropped back onto his shoulders and he bit his lip to muffle any further sounds which might escape him and arouse the attention of the guard stationed outside.

Before he even had time to reconsider or call to mind countless sermons on fire and brimstone, Henry aligned his shaft with the lord’s entrance. For a moment he considered asking if what he was doing was alright—would it be painful? Henry had no idea—but one look at Hans told him words were unnecessary. His noble face was flushed with expectancy, eyes unfocused and full of rapture. It was an oddly beautiful sight, Henry thought dimly, but one he could barely focus on with the tip of his cock now nudging against soft, yielding skin.

He pushed inside and, after a moment, had to remind himself to breathe, the sensation was so intense. Perched on the table, Hans winced audibly but pushed against him, urging him to go further. He was so _tight_, so _hot;_ it was difficult for Henry to pull back even a little bit, but the friction felt so good it made everything worth it.

In no way was it like anything he had ever experienced with a woman. Perhaps that was why the church, why God condemned sodomy—because it felt so good it made it hard to worship anything else?

Henry pushed in once more, deeper this time. Hans had his head thrown back as though unwilling to look at him, but in time with each of Henry’s thrusts breathy little moans tumbled from his lips. Seeking for purchase, the blacksmith’s son held fast onto the lord’s sides. He could feel muscles tense and relax beneath the skin, could feel the same, urgent heat thrumming away deep inside that had taken control of his own body. With one hand he fumbled for Hans’ cock, pumping it in time with his own movements as best he could.

The next thrust produced an audible slapping sound between their two bodies, both of them slick with sweat by now, and Hans made an indignant noise of protest as though about to shush him in the midst of the throes of passion. Henry grunted, digging his fingers into the lord’s hips and thrusting into him more vigorously, uncaring of who might hear or what they might think. As a result, Hans yelped and looked away again, covering his mouth, but Henry wasn’t having any of it.

“Look at me.”

He got out the hoarse words from between clenched teeth, without slowing his rhythm. No force on this earth could have stopped him at this point; Hans felt too good, too tight and hot and willing, but he wanted to see his face, wanted to see the effect he was having on the otherwise so haughty lord. When he refused, Henry reached out to cup his face in what might have been an intimate gesture if he hadn’t forced his chin towards him, making Hans meet his gaze. Those long lashes of his fluttered just as a woman’s might, but there was something else there in his eyes, something coy and impatient Henry hadn’t been expecting to see. It only fuelled the heat which pooled inexorably at his core.

“You still think I’m a brute, don’t you, my Lord?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Aren’t you?” came the retort from Hans without any hesitation, though his own voice was substantially more shaky and uneven than was usual.

“You like it, don’t you?”

Hans bit his lip. _That had shut him up,_ Henry realised in delight, and the fact sent almost as much pleasure arcing through him as the friction his thrusts were earning.

“You like it—unh—don’t you, my Lord?”

Repetition punctuated by a groan of unadulterated pleasure, Henry slowed his strokes of the lord’s cock for just a moment, prompting a response. Nothing could have prepared him for the breathless, almost pitiful whine that escaped Hans.

“Y-yes…” he finally uttered his whimpered confession, followed by a moan as Henry sped up his strokes once again.

Muscles clenched around Henry's member as a flushed Hans writhed on the tabletop. It was too much. Relinquishing his cock, Henry took hold of the lord's narrow hips and flipped him onto his stomach. Hans gasped—loudly enough for several guards around the camp to hear, let alone the one stationed outside his tent—as his member was not only denied Henry’s ministrations but pressed forcefully against the table. One hand placed firmly on the small of his back ensured the lord’s face, too, made contact with the table’s surface.

“If I’m—unh—such a brute,” Henry huffed between thrusts, “Then I’ll fuck you like one.”

Feeling Hans’ arse, soft pale skin used to sitting on comfortable cushions and expensive saddles, Henry now thrust his cock into him with little regard for the other’s pleasure, let alone noise or the imminent threat of being discovered. He felt the lord’s back arch as he squirmed helplessly beneath him but didn't relinquish the iron grip. He _couldn’t_ have even if he had wanted to; as Hans shifted feverishly, soft cheeks pressing against Henry as he buried himself up to the hilt inside him, Henry saw stars.

His release was violent and sudden and it took several moments for him to regain his composure, to realise he had spilled his seed then and there. The shape of Hans was limp on the table beneath him, all frantic tension from moments ago evaporated, leaving only sweat and residual heat in its wake.

As Henry pulled out of him and looked around sheepishly for something, anything, to clean himself with, Hans shifted weakly, managing to turn around to face him. Sitting caused him to wince, so he walked resolutely to his sleeping place at the far end of the tent, where he draped a large swath of clean fabric around his naked form, hiding delicate skin flushed from experiencing a climax of his own. Though he offered Henry no such courtesy, he soon returned to where he was standing, gazing up at him with an unreadable expression.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he advised, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in an unnervingly feline manner.

“Who, me?” asked Henry, with the air of someone coming to after a long slumber.

The reality of what had just happened, what he had just done, was only now truly dawning on him. It was only by God’s grace, surely, that Hans hadn’t summoned a guard and had him executed on the spot.

“Mhm…” Hans actually purred, taking another step closer, “Who _else_ could I be talking about?”

“I don’t know, I—”

Bumbling words were cut short as Hans pressed his lips to Henry’s. He had to stand on tiptoes for a moment, but then he threw his arms around Henry’s neck and the taller man couldn’t help but lean down to meet him, give in to it fully. It felt good and that was all he knew; there was no need to unpack the implications right this second when the lord’s soft, plumped lips were right there, mischievous and yielding all at once.

When they broke apart, Henry buried his face in the crook of his neck. Even though he knew by rights that all he should be able to smell was sweat and maybe smoke from the camp’s many fires, he thought he caught the scent of flowery bathwater, just for a moment. Hans purred again, his fingers threading through Henry’s hair.

“You’re being awfully tender,” he remarked softly, as though treading carefully so as not to break the spell, “My big, tender brute…”

Henry didn’t respond. He couldn't come up with the right words, never had been able to. All he could do was pull Hans close to him and kiss the soft, unblemished skin where shoulder met throat, as though it was the only thing on God’s green Earth that mattered.


End file.
